


Heartbeats

by Kitty_KatAllie



Category: Doctor Who, Supernatural, Superwho - Fandom
Genre: Crossover, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-13
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-26 11:46:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/965562
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kitty_KatAllie/pseuds/Kitty_KatAllie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What if Dean and Sam were Timelords? Traveling the universe. Saving worlds. You know, that family business. Or something like it. The Drifter hasn't wanted a companion for centuries now, content to do just as his name implied and ignore his brother's advice. His last companions could never be replaced. The idea of moving on, letting their memory slip into the past, HIS past, with all the other chaos dogging his footsteps was too much to bear. But then one day, back in the 1800s, on a hunt gone wrong, he finds out that while nothing can fill the hole left in their wake, there's always room for one more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Heartbeats

He was sitting on the hood of his TARDIS, the smooth black sheen of her chassis so hot it was borderline painful under his thighs. She didn't look like a TARDIS, more like a '67 Chevrolet Impala, but looks could be deceiving. He tipped back his head and gulped the last, lukewarm dregs of piss-cheap beer.

Just across the street, a young boy, barely five, was swinging on the playground. A young woman was pushing him gently, her long brown hair waving in the breeze. They were both laughing and smiling and... and _alive_. Fuck, it hurt. It shouldn't hurt so much. He shouldn't even be there, but he'd never been able to control himself as well as his brother and others of his race and means. A glutton for pain and self-flagellation, that's the Drifter for ya.

His pocket buzzed, pulling him from the bittersweet burning in his chest.

"Dean," he muttered hoarsely, getting to his feet followed by heavy boots thudding on hot pavement. He tossed the empty glass bottle into a nearby trashcan as he walked around the nose of the "Impala". He'd long ago picked up the alias he used now, changing it just a little now and then for different decades. USA was too full of suspicious, nosey bastards not to have a false identity ready. Especially with his line of work.

"It's me, Drifter," came the familiar voice of his brother.

"Ah, crap, you had me worried this was important, bitch," Dean joked, hoping the Scholar (well, _Sam_ in his current timeline) couldn't hear the tightness in his throat.

"Jerk," Sam snapped back, though his tone was slightly amused. "There's a problem. I was thinking... you'd like to take this one?" Sam's voice wasn't so amused anymore-- more anxious and hesitant.

Dean rubbed the bridge of his nose and bit back a sigh. Fuck, it'd been years since his last _real_ case. He'd, of course, stumbled on a few since he had taken off and lived up to his name with a vengeance. But willingly taken one assigned to him? Alone?

On the heels of that thought came the image of the woman and her boy. The last he'd held out his hand to with a wild smile and told to "Run!"

"Drifter, it's been two hundred years. Isn't it time to stop watching them?" Sam whispered softly. Dean cursed long and low as he threw open his Baby's door.

"Shut up, Scholar," Dean snarled. The "car" rocked as his weight flung onto the seat. He was yanking back the gear shift even as the door slammed shut. There was that moment of disorientation and he was standing in the console room, the tall pillar filled with light shining in front of him. "What the fuck is it?"

"Ah... yeah, it's, well, it's reading like a werewolf-"

"We talking lycanthrope-parasites or _werewolves,"_ Dean demanded, interest stirring despite himself. He'd always preferred real Hunter cases over stupid alien crap. Too much diplomacy and "ask questions first" shit. They kill people, the Drifter ganks 'em. That's how it should work. Fuck the Shadow Proclamation of Whensits. 

"Of the three victims found dead in the past... two weeks, all the hearts have been ripped out. No signs of the missing organs," Sam replied. Dean could swear he _heard_ the frowny bitchface he was probably sporting. But who cared? Dean whooped. " _Drifter,_ people are dying."

"Yeah, but c'mon. Werewolves, man. Badass, motherfucking werewolves. I get to dust off the ole silver bullets and Colt. You know how long it's been since I've been able to shoot? Too fucking long, that's how much," Dean said gleefully, tucking his phone up between his shoulder and ear as he rubbed his hands together.

Fingers drifted over the console, over levers and buttons and weird little wheels. Half the shit was just for show, but who was he to tell Baby not to? She liked to look sexy and he wasn't going to stop her.

"When and where, bro?"

"Pontiac, Illinois, September 1837. The most recent killing was a man named Young. Get this, a few months before, back in July, his brother was killed the same way. They're both founders of the town."

"Yeah? These guys might've pissed off the were' while in human shape, it could turn over while on the cycle. Werewolves don't normally have too much of an agenda, though," Dean pointed out as he pushed, pulled, and twisted away, grinning as Baby's engine cranked up.

"Normally, they don't. But Drifter, they also don't kill outside the full moon cycle. Both the brothers were found dead during different phases of the moon. The most recent, he died during the full moon, the first one did not."

"Well, shit. You think we're dealing with a pure blood? That's a hoot," Dean muttered, pulling back the last lever.

The TARDIS jerked and he gripped the dash tight, grunting to hold upright. The cell fell from its precarious hold and clattered over the ground. With an annoyed grunt, Dean dived after it, skidding over the deck and snatching up the mobile before it fell off and into the mess of wires below.

"You were saying?"

"It looks like it could be a pureblood, yes. You really shouldn't try to hold a phone without your _hands_ , Drifter."

"Dude, how many years is it going to take before you call me Dean? Drifter ain't really American sounding, remember?  _Sam_?" Dean retorted.

"How many years will it be before you find a new companion?" At Dean's heavy, angry silence, Sam sighed again, soft and sad. "Drifter, _Dean_ , look, you're a Timelord. You're going to live a really, really long time. Damn it, Dean, even with your stupid martyr complex, you have at least 4 more regenerations. You're _not supposed to be alone_. Lisa and Ben... they were great. They were _family_ , but they're gone-"

Dean slammed his thumb down on the end button. Rage had him surging to his feet and pulling back his arm. The crack and smash of plastic and cell phone innards echoed through the bridge in the most satisfying way.

"Fuck you, Sammy," Dean muttered quietly, eyes on his boots. The TARDIS shuddered to a stop.

 

* * *

 

The little town of Pontiac was just… well… it wasn’t even really a town yet. It was a muddy, half-baked idea of a town. The few houses were cheap clapboards, the general store looked like it had trouble stocking flour, and the city hall was barely bigger than a shack. It was very _not_ impressive. Dean hated going back into the past unless it was for something cool-- like cowboys or Eliot Ness, you know? Coming to some podunk town barely west of the the armpit of the US covered in mud and severely lacking in the sidewalks, yeah, that wasn't fun.

"Werewolf better be worth it," Dean muttered, snapping the monitor off.

Unlike a certain someone who’d pretty much crashed his TARDIS years ago, Dean’s Baby still had all her parts working, and that meant her chameleon circuit. Good thing, too. While a giant blue box was strange, a giant black autmobile that wouldn’t be invented for another 130 years would be a lot harder to explain away. With a sigh, Dean activated the circuit and hoped his Baby picked something good. He patted her console absently and headed out, not even bothering to change. Jeans were invented around the 1800’s, right? Cowboys and whatever. Yeah, sure.

Dean sauntered out, hands deep in his leather jacket pockets. He took a glance over his shoulder and jerked in surprise. His face twisted with disbelief, before choking up a laugh that had his whole body vibrating. Well, that was new. _Good job, Baby_ , Dean thought, still chuckling as he continued towards the town less than a mile away.

Just outside the town was a small parish. It was probably the best looking building in the place. The whitewash still looked pretty fresh, there was a simple picket fence, and the only break in the lawn around it was a stone path up to the open doors. A young man, looking around the same age Dean's current regeneration looked (which, it was nice having a young body still-- older models just don't have the stamina, if you know what he means), was standing on a short ladder, wiping down the windows and humming softly. He wasn't wearing clergy clothes, just brown trousers and a baggy blue flannel shirt. His feet were bare surprisingly, and covered with mud. 

"Hey, man, you got a moment?" Dean called out, leaning on the fence and pasteing on his "I'm-a-good-guy" smile. The man twisted, his face dark with a frown. There was a long silent moment as the window-washer stared mutely. Barely resisting an urge to eye roll, Dean waggled his eyebrows and jerked his head back. "C'mere, dude. I got some questions."

The man blinked slow, then climbed down the two steps and walked to the fence. One hand still clenched the rag he'd been using.

"You're not from around here," the man stated baldly. 

"Ya think? Name's Winchester. Deputy Marshal," Dean pulled from his ass, flashing a fold of psychic paper in the guy's face. The man tilted his head slightly, the frown even darker and eyes-- whoa, those are blue-- on Dean's chest where he'd just slipped the bill fold. "I'm here about the murders."

Blue eyes flashed back to Dean's face, features softening slightly. 

"The sheriff says it's just an animal. He never said he sent out for a marshal."

"Well, he didn't have to. You think we don't hear about these things? Took out the founders of this town, didn't it? They owe a few people a few things, still haven't come due, made their names come up when we normally don't care. So, see here, uh..." Dean trailed off expectantly, but the man didn't take the hint and continued staring at Dean unerringly. "Right, Mr. Creepy Stares, I don't really want stay here long. I just wanna look around, make sure it really was some freaky animal attack, and then be on my way. Capiche?"

"Castiel."

"Bless you?" Dean replied, flabbergasted. 

"My name is Castiel Novak. Not Capiche Creepy Stares," the guy-- Castiel Novak-- said. 

Dean gaped at him, then rubbed the bridge of his nose. Of every fucking person in this crappy ass town, he _had_ to run into the village fucking weirdo. Fucking swell.

"Yeah, whatever. I'm done here."

God, he missed Ben. Kid always managed to pull the answers out of anyone. Paired up with Lisa's sweet smile, they had made Dean's job so friggin' easy. He shoved his hands back in his pockets and stormed away.

"It wasn't an animal."

"FUCKING SHIT!" Dean yelped, a very _manly_   yelp, thank you very much. The guy, Castiel, Mr. Fucking Creepy, was suddenly right next to Dean, not even looking winded. "You need a fucking bell, man."

"It wasn't an animal. The thing doing the killing," Castiel repeated calmly, coming to stop when Dean paused to gulp down a few deep breaths.

"Yeah, then what is it?"

"I don't know." Dean snorted and Castiel's brows contracted. Did the guy ever _not_ frown? What were his defaults? Frown, Frownier, Frowniest? Jeez. "I don't know, but it wasn't an animal. It wouldn't have just torn out the heart and left the rest. That doesn't make sense."

Dean immediately sobered. "You're sure? Just the hearts?"

"And the surrounding area. Ribs were torn apart like twigs. A wild animal doesn't work like that. It was like... something had punched right through and pulled right back out," Castiel whispered softly. Dean stared down at the man-- surprise, surprise, still frowning. "My brother is the preacher here, marshal. He's the most educated man in Pontiac right now. They call him when people get hurt and he's called when people die. I help him as best I can, but there wasn't anything we could have done."

Dean rubbed his chin, glaring up at the sky as they walked towards the general store. It was the largest building other than the church, and a sign in the window proclaimed draft beer and a dinner special. Looked like the general store was standing in for a bar and/or eatery. 

"Where they found?"

"Not too far from their beds, marshal. It got into their _homes_ ," Castiel whispered, anger seeping into his words. Once again those blue eyes pinned him down like a bug to a corkboard. "Are you sure you'll be able to handle this alone?"

Dean smirked at him. "Yeah, sure. I got this, Novak."

"Just Castiel is fine. If you need my help, just ask," he offered seriously. Abruptly, he turned away and headed back towards the church.

"Still pretty fucking weird," Dean muttered.

 

* * *

 

The day in town had been shitty. Like, real shitty. The sheriff was a dick who refused to play nice. The store manager, Mr. Barker, charged him too high for the crappy biscuits and half-cold pork 'n' beans. The beer was almost flat. The only lady worth looking at was married, and her husband had almost threatened to shoot Dean, marshal or not, for winking at her. Yeah, shitty was right.

And to top the day off, he was stuck freezing his ass off in the autumn night air. It was barely friggin' September. It shouldn't have been so cold, but it had rained the night before and ground hadn't dried up at all during the heavily overcast day. So now Dean was stuck up in a tree, ass to wet bark, mud caked on jeans and boots, and a chilly breeze finding itself down the collar of his jacket. Being a Timelord was great, really. Seeing the world. History. Being a _part_ of it. And being a Hunter, the job he and Sammy had fallen into on this mudball planet they'd got stuck on, was usually pretty nice. A real family business. Hunting things. Saving people. Their dad would have been proud... well, after the initial shock and disgust 'cuz the whole killing things. Very un-Timelordy. (Yup, that's sarcasm. It was dirtying the hands thing that would have done it.)

Then, there were nights like tonight when he wished he'd chosen a different name, a different _path_ all those years ago. 'Cuz drifting around the universe was way overrated. 

Dean stiffened at a soft, barely there sound. Surely the werewolf would be a bit more frenzied. Green eyes scanned the dark huddle of houses, wondering why the world the were' was in the woods without grabbing a victim. The sound was there again and Dean gazed into the dark, hearts beating with adrenaline fast and hard. 

"Hello, marshal," said a deep, hoarse voice. A familiar one.

Dean was half-falling out of the tree and half-groaning as he figured it out. He shoved his shotgun out of the way, then swung down. There was moment of sick fear and weightlessness before his boots thudded to the squishy loam and mud of the forest floor.

"Damn it, Cas. What the hell are you doing?" he snapped angrily. Castiel tilted his head to the side, then looked down at the large steaming mugs in his hands. He was in the same clothes as before, but this time with a pair of scuffed up boots and a bulky, large, oiled-canvas jacket over everything. He looked like a postal package done up wrong before shipping.

"I brought tea. It's cold."

Dean narrowed his eyes suspiciously, but Castiel merely sipped from one mug and held the other out. The Timelord snatched it away. "Look, kid, I'm hunting a monster, here. You're gonna get hurt. Go back home, make sure your doors and windows are barricaded, and sleep, or pray, or something."

"Your paper was blank."

....

Dean stared in mild horor as those words sunk in. Castiel sipped more scalding tea nonchalantly. 

"Why the hell- what- You didn't say anything to anyone," Dean sputtered. Castiel shrugged. 

"You believed me when I said it wasn't an animal. I'll believe that you're someone here to help, whatever guise you do it under. However, that does not mean I _trust_ you. You're a liar, Winchester, but a good person, I think. I'd like to know the truth," came the slowly worded answer. He spoke as if he weighed each word carefully, choosing the best fit and intonation with extreme focus. 

"I'm in and out, kid. I'm just here for the baddie."

"I'm almost 30 years old-"

"Sh, quiet!" Dean snapped, grabbing Castiel shoulder and whipping the civvie behind him. The mug of tea was gone and the sawed-off was in hand, strap hanging awkwardly. In the night, the weird echoes of something large and heavy was running straight towards them. " _Damn it_ , it must have caught our scent, or it's looking for one of us. You piss off anyone recently?" Dean hissed.

"I keep to myself to prevent that sort of thing," Castiel retorted sharply. Dean shouldn't have been surprised, it _was_ the 1800's and he'd taken note of the baggy canvas jacket after all, but when Castiel pulled out the hand pistol, he started visibly. 

"Dude, is that a friggin' _flintlock_? Hasn't the Colt been done yet?"

"The Colt is fairly expensive. Shouldn't you be paying attention to the problem at hand?" Castiel pointed out, cocking back the hammer. 

"Yeah, right- _what the fuck_ ," Dean breathed as the figure broke through the trees. It was _huge_. It was covered in fur and very friggin' wolfy looking. It looked like something straight outta Hollywood and Dean was going to kill the Scholar. _Kill him_. That was definitely not a were'. 

"A werewolf?" Castiel breathed shock.

"FUCKING SHOOT, YOU DUMBASS," Dean shouted, following his own advice. The silver loaded shells were shot one by one in quick succession, the ringing of the flintlock like a gong in his head. How'd Cas even keep a hold of it with the recoil? The werealienparasite thing had shuddered and fallen to the ground, but Dean wasn't fooled. The silver was absolutely wasted on this thing. Oh, it'd hurt, and it'd feel it for a while, but while the moon was up, it wouldn't feel it for long. Castiel, though, didn't know that, and was taking cautious steps towards the body.

He grabbed Castiel's hand and the man spun around, eyes wide and terrified and baffled. 

"Cas, _run_ ," Dean, Drifter, Timelord, ordered low and urgent. The werealien groaned and shifted just then. Cas' fingers wrapped tight around Dean's hand as he nodded just once. 

Dean didn't even stop to think about how seriously fucked they were, or how much those words had hurt. He just kept his grip firm and sure and barrelled through the trees to his Baby. Castiel was barely one step behind, toes scraping on the heels. 

**Author's Note:**

> Written for superwholockthecomic's Fanwork Friday. Hopefully I'll come back and finish, but here ya go for now! No, I'm not planning this to be a pairing/romance story. Any romantic connotations are purely in your brains (Really. Really really. Okay, maybe there's a little, but it shouldn't be any more overt than SPN's writing, so ha!) I actually looked up the history of Pontiac, Illinois for this story, and also revolvers. It should be pretty historically accurate.


End file.
